Emily exercises

I picked up the book from the coffee table. Some thriller I'd been meaning to get to for months, the bookmark still tucked about fifty pages in. I settled into the corner of the couch, stretched my legs out, and tried to lose myself in the words.

It didn't work.

The sentences blurred together. I'd read the same paragraph three times and couldn't have told you what it said. My mind kept drifting back to Harry's face, the way he'd scrambled out of here like the apartment was on fire.

I was just starting to **** myself to focus when I heard it.

A noise from the bedroom.

I paused, the book resting in my lap. Listened.

There it was again. A soft, rhythmic sound. Muffled by the closed door, but unmistakably coming from Emily.

I figured it was just the workout. Grunting. Heavy breathing. The sounds of exertion. I'd heard her do burpees before, and she wasn't quiet about it. I shook my head and tried to go back to my book.

But then I heard something else.

Talking. Emily was talking in there. Not on the phone—there was no pause, no waiting for a response. Just a steady, rhythmic murmur, like she was reciting something to herself.

I tried to ignore it. I really did.

But my mind wouldn't let it go. The bachelorette video. The way she'd brushed it off. The new positions in bed. The way she'd said accidents happen with the exact same inflection as the man in the coffee shop. The way she'd called her coffee yummy this morning.

I set the book down.

I told myself I was just going to check on her. See if she needed anything. Water, maybe. A towel. Nothing weird about that.

I stood up and walked toward the bedroom, my footsteps deliberately soft on the hardwood floor. I wasn't sneaking. I was just... being considerate. Not disturbing her flow.

The door was closed. I could hear her voice more clearly now, but the words were still indistinct, a low chant buried under the sound of movement. Fabric rustling. The creak of the bed frame.

I put my hand on the door handle. Paused.

Then I turned it, slowly, carefully, and pushed the door open just an inch.

I peered through the gap.

The first thing I registered was a new tripod? It was set up at the foot of the bed, Emily's phone mounted on it inside a ring light I'd never seen before, the camera pointed directly at the bed. The second thing I registered was Emily herself.

She was on her back, folded nearly in half, her legs pulled up and her feet hooked behind her head. A grey sports bra was stretched across her collarbone, dark with sweat, pulled up so that her breasts hung on display, splayed slightly to each side and bouncing with the movement of her body. From my angle, I couldn't see what her hands were doing—the tripod blocked the view—but I could see the motion. The rhythm.

And I could hear her now. Clear as day.

"It's good—for sluts—to stretch. It's good—for sluts—to stretch."

The words punched the air out of my lungs.

I pushed the door open fully and stepped inside, no longer pretending I wasn't looking. My feet carried me around the tripod, giving me a clear view of the bed.

Emily's eyes flickered to me for a split second. A quick smile lit up her face, warm and familiar, before it dropped and her eyes closed again, her focus snapping back to whatever zone she was in.

I saw it all then.

She was holding a large black dildo, gripping it by the balls with both hands, thrusting it into her pussy in time with her chant. Quick, deep thrusts, followed by slower, deliberate pulls. A sparkling gem sat just below her entrance - a butt plug, its base winking at me. Her pussy and ass were literally dripping. A bottle of lube sat to one side on the bed. A towel was spread beneath her, already dark with moisture. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead, her breathing ragged and timed to her movements.

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

"It's good—for sluts—to stretch."

I stood there, frozen, my mind a blank wall of static. She knew I was here. She'd seen me. And she was continuing. Like this was normal. Like this was just another Tuesday.

I moved to the small desk in the corner, the one Emily usually used for her makeup, and perched on the chair. It was out of view of the camera. I sat. I watched.

I didn't know what else to do.

For several minutes, she continued. Thrusting. Chanting. Her body glistening with sweat, her breasts bouncing, her face a mask of focused concentration. Then her watch beeped, and she paused, lowering her legs from behind her head with a soft groan. She stretched, arching her back, taking a deep breath.

Then she flipped over onto all fours.

Her breasts hung down, swaying gently. She grabbed the dildo by the balls again with just the one hand now, positioned it at her entrance, and resumed. This time, the camera had a perfect view of her perfect curves from behind. Her whole body shunted forward with each thrust, her voice soft and rhythmic, her dangling breasts slapping against her forearm on the more vigorous thrusts.

"It's good—for sluts—to stretch."

I watched her ass ripple with each impact. The gem of the butt plug catching the light.

Finally, blessedly, her watch beeped again. She collapsed onto the bed, her chest heaving, the dildo still buried inside her. She lay there for a moment, catching her breath, then turned to face the camera.

She pulled the dildo out slowly, deliberately, and brought it up to her mouth. She stared directly into the phone camera, her eyes locking onto the lens, and began to slowly lick her own juices off the shaft. Her eyes closed. She hummed softly, like she was savouring a fine meal. Then her eyes opened again, still fixed on the camera, and she finished by lightly sucking the tip, her lips pursing around it before she let it drop onto the bed.

She gave a cute little wave of her fingers to the camera, then reached forward and ended the recording.

She collapsed back onto the bed with a satisfied sigh.

"Whoo, that was intense." She raised her head and smiled at me, bright and genuine. "Urgh, my thighs are burning already." She chuckled softly. "Okay, time for a shower."

"Emily, wait."

She paused, looking at me expectantly.

"That's your workout?" I asked, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. I gestured at the bed. At the dildo lying unceremoniously on the towel. I could see now that it was considerably girthier than me. Longer, too.

"Oh no, that's just the warm down." She said it like it was obvious. "It's important to properly stretch out after exercising, you know."

"Oh." I swallowed. "And the recordings?"

"I send them to Marcus. He checks my form, gives me feedback, improvement points." She tilted her head, looking at me like I'd grown a second head. "I told you about this yesterday, remember?"

"To your trainer. Right." I took a breath. "And you don't think that's, um, inappropriate?"

She frowned, genuinely thinking about it. Her brow furrowed. She looked down at herself, at the dildo, at the towel, like she was trying to see what I was seeing. "In what way?" she finally asked.

"Well, you're naked. And masturbating. On camera. With an enormous black dildo. And a fucking butt plug that's still inside you."

"Hah, you're right." My heart leaped—and then crashed as she reached behind her, feeling for the little gem. "This feels really weird going in and out, but after a little while it's so easy to forget it's there." She eased the plug out with a slight grimace, brought it to her mouth, popped it in, gave it a quick clean with her tongue, and tossed it onto the towel with the dildo. "Thanks for the reminder."

I could only stare.

She looked at me, still frowning slightly. "Umm, I'm still not sure what you mean, though. This is pretty standard gear. And there's nothing sexual about it except the hot girl doing it." She winked at me.

She really didn't see it, and I didn't have the words.

"Anyway, I really need a shower." She stood up, stretched, and padded past me into the bathroom, pulling off the pointless sports bra as she went. Completely naked, completely unashamed, completely oblivious.

The bathroom door clicked shut. The shower started running.

I sat there on the makeup chair, staring at the bed. At the towel. At the dildo and the butt plug lying on it. At the tripod and the ring light and the phone.

You'll watch.

The words hit me harder than they had before. Harder than in the coffee shop. Harder than when I'd first seen the video. Because now I understood. This wasn't just about watching her fuck a stripper. This was about watching her become someone else, piece by piece, and being powerless to stop it.

How could Emily not see it? How could she look at what she'd just done and call it a warm down? How could she lick her own juices off a dildo on camera for her personal trainer and think it was standard? Clean a butt plug with her mouth?

The man in the worn-out jacket. The one she'd spilled coffee on. The one who'd whispered in her ear. The one who'd whispered in mine.

He'd done something to her, to us. I didn't know what. I didn't know how. But I knew it was him.

I stood up, my legs feeling unsteady beneath me. I walked out of the bedroom, through the living room, to the kitchen. I picked up my phone.

I didn't know his name. I didn't know where he lived. I didn't know anything about him except the worn-out jacket and the bottomless eyes and the whisper that had burrowed into my brain.

But I was going to find him.

I had to.